And then Pozhar was level with Dmitrii’s horse, rearing, forcing another attacker back.

Dmitrii turned and saw her. His face changed. He leaned over and seized her arm, heedless of her wounds or his.

“Sasha,” he said. “Where is Sasha?”

Battle had numbed her, but at his words, the fog around her mind thinned a little—and beneath it was agony. Dmitrii saw it in her face. His own whitened. His lips firmed. Without another word to Vasya, he turned to his men again. “Fall back! Join the second line, bring them up.”

It wasn’t orderly. The Russians were breaking, fleeing, hiding themselves in the second line of battle, which was wavering badly. Now the Bear was nowhere to be seen, and—

Dmitrii said, turning back on her suddenly, “If Oleg was planning to take a hand, now is a good time.”

“I’ll go find him,” said Vasya. To Morozko, she said, “Don’t let him die.”

Morozko looked as though he wanted to swear at her; there was mud on his face too, and blood. A long scratch marred the neck of his mare. He wasn’t the aloof winter-king now. But he only nodded, turned his horse to keep up with Dmitrii.

Dmitrii said, “If Oleg hasn’t betrayed us, tell him to fall in on Mamai’s right flank,” and then he whirled away calling more orders.

Vasya turned Pozhar, trying to sink once more into invisibility, cutting through the advancing Tatar line in search of Oleg.

SHE FOUND THE MEN of Ryazan fresh, waiting on a small rise, watching.

“This,” said Vasya, riding up to him, “is not generally what is meant when you take an oath to a Grand Prince that you are going to fight.”

Oleg just smiled at her. “When one is risking everything on a hammer-stroke, one waits until the stroke does the most good.” He looked over the field. “That time is now. Ride down with me, witch-girl?”

“Hurry,” said Vasya.

He called an order; Vasya wheeled Pozhar. The mare was glowing coal-hot, but Vasya couldn’t feel it.

The men of Ryazan, shouting, raced down the rise at full stretch. Horns were blowing. Vasya fell in beside Oleg’s stirrup, going to a little trouble to hold Pozhar to the pace of the racing horses. She saw the Tatars turning in shock, to meet an attack on an unexpected quarter, and then she saw another movement from the woods on Dmitrii’s left flank—Vladimir’s cavalry coming out of the forest at last, and the Bear among them, driving their horses on with the speed of terror. She could hear his whooping laughter.

And so they caught the Tatars between them—Oleg, Vladimir, and Dmitrii—and smashed the line to pieces.

BUT STILL IT HAD to be fought out, hour by bloody hour, and she did not know how long it had been—hours? days?—when at last a voice brought her back to herself. “Vasya,” Morozko said. “It is over. They are fleeing.”